


Asset Management

by Anonymous



Series: Hell-ward Bound [2]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things you pick up in dark alleys these days...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asset Management

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for dub-con.
> 
> Prompt challenge: "A Soldier walks into a bar. He has no idea what bar this is, because he and his buddies have been drinking their way through Midgar and this is the fifth, maybe sixth sector theyve been to. This is how the night before happens, because the morning after is gonna be /amazing/." 
> 
> I may have kind of taken some liberties with the subject matter whoopsie (and also the word limit. 2000 was just a suggestion right???)
> 
> Written for a challenge, barely edited, definitely not beta-read, filled with all sorts of errors imaginable

It's ass-o-clock am and Kunsel isn't nearly as drunk as he looks. Luxiere leans in to 'subtly' steal a kiss/grope/what-the-fuck-ever under the guise of too-drunk-to-know-better. Kunsel affects a stumble and quick-steps just far enough that fumbling hands brush right by.

 

“Fuck you,” Luxiere berates cheerfully. Indomitable, that one, at least according to his file. Fucking persistent, Kunsel thinks, is far more accurate. Still, he doesn't start anything. He throws back an equally cheerful 'Fuck _you'_ and they trade insults of anatomy and parentage a while before Luxiere gets bored and wanders off.

 

They've both got techniques, and while Kunsel's is a 'stagger-honestly-bewildered creep along solid walls, Luxiere's is a straight-backed, stiff-legged 'drunk?-nope-not-me-nooooooooo-sir!' swaying strut. Somewhere Zexus is draped across the lap of a guy he met about half an hour ago, loudly proclaiming 'I  _love_ you man, I fuckin-fucking love you!'. Doesn't look like he's getting anywhere, but he's a big boy and a professional. Kunsel'll keep his nose right out, thanks. He's got his own beat to wander.

 

Checking for form's sake to make sure Luxiere's got the toilets and back doors covered and no one really needs him to stick around, Kunsel takes the front and makes his mincing way down the block, sticking to those just-too-shadowed corners.

 

Their group is out rat-fishing today and Kunsel's got this month's chocolate ration riding on reeling one in the next four hours.

 

He picked well.  _So_ well. The graffiti had just barely changed from Standard to Wutainese before a form of just skin and bones slinks up to his right.

 

“Aw man you're _so_ wasted yo!” the guy, no a kid, comments with more a little humor.

 

“So wasted!” Kunsel agrees. “So so so so so wasted. Waaaaaaasted.” He grinned and used the arm not propping him up against a wall to make a little wave. “Yay!”

 

There's a choke of hastily stifled laughter and a shuffle from deeper in the shadows. Looks like skin-n-bones's got friends. 

 

“Yay,” the kid replies and Kunsel's never heard anyone sound quite so sardonic since the last time Veld floated through the SOLDIER dorms flaunting his prodigy. “Damn proud a yourself, aincha.”

 

“Yay,” Kunsel agrees again and someone laughs again.

 

“Alrighty Soldier-boy, we gonna do this the nice way. We're gonna get you the fuck outta our turf and you're gonna pay us nice-like for the escort, get me?” 

 

“That sounds like an excellent plan!” Kunsel tells the kid's left elbow. He feels the eyeroll instead of seeing it. “Nice things are always nice.”

 

“Sure they are,” the kid says and, for some reason maybe stemming from some well hidden basic human decency, reaches to steady Kunsel when he nearly faceplants.

 

If Kunsel hadn't been sure before, he was then. Slim makes to shove him away and Kunsel's hand slams shut like a vice on the painfully skinny arms.

 

“It's typically polite to wait for someone to pay you for your 'protection' instead of taking the gil yourself,” Kunsel points out, his mild voice completely steady and showing no hint of drunkenness. There is a series of hissed curses and Kunsel doesn't bother to track the disappearing forms of four other street-rats fleeing for their worthless skins now that the night's entertainment is clearly a predator.

 

“'S Typically polite notta pretend you're trashed to prey on honest folk, yo.” Kunsel gave the kid props: he's shaking like he's half a second away from pissing himself but his teeth are clenched and his spine is ramrod-straight. 

 

Kunsel grins and fishes his own dummy wallet from the kid's pocket, tapping it twice against the kid's nose. He honestly wouldn't have known when the kid lifted it if it hadn't been rigged to buzz the PHS in his other pocket when it got too far away. “Not a typically polite kinda guy,” he agrees. “You got a name kid?”

 

“Reno.” Kunsel has absolutely no illusions that its his actual name. He doesn't much care. “And now that we're all friendly, you can lemme go and go do whatever the fuck you do when you ain't makin trouble for people.”

 

“Now that we're friendly, you can tell me how much it is for two hours.”

 

That? That freezes him solid in Kunsel's grip. Indignation frizzles in the air between them.

 

“I look like a ho to you?” 

 

“You look like you know about how much gil was in that wallet and you'd do just about any-fucking-thing I told you to get your hands on it.”

 

The kid's not hard on the eyes by a long shot, ignoring the fact that he needs a good meal or three and a decent haircut. Typical twink for all that his glare said he's stab the first bitch for insinuating that. Regardless Kunsel's completely sure that he's not the first guy this Reno's spread for.

 

There's a moment more of quiet and Reno lets loose an exhale that seems to drag all the way through his body, leaving him lax. “Ain't suckin your dick next to a dumpster,” he counters.

 

“You will if I say so.” 

 

Reno glares, and it makes his face tats scrunch up in a way that was probably supposed to look intimidating and not like a disgruntled puppy. He grunts in acknowledgment and calls the SOLDIER's bluff, slinking off down the alley and breaking Kunsel's hold on his arm solely by virtue of that fact that Kunsel let him. 

 

A block or two in the dark, Reno's red hair a beacon, and they find a plain, unmarked door that cracks open to Reno's knock and opens the rest of the way to Kunsel's gil. “One hour,” the toothless old hag manning the door spits at them, literally spitting when Reno replies with a one-fingered salute. The room they're let is barely bigger than a Shinra interrogation cell. Kunsel finds it amusingly appropriate.

 

Luckily it's better equipped for Kunsel's needs than your average interrogation cell. 

 

Reno eyes him warily, standing oddly vulnerable in the middle of the room with arms wrapped around himself and almost-green eyes wide in the dim light. “What d-” is all he manages before Kunsel tips him onto the tiny bed.

 

“Aw come on kid,” Kunsel laughs, snagging the lube from the flimsy-looking side-table. “Not paying for banter, am I?” There's an angry tick in the corner of the red-head's jaw. One skinny, booted foot lashes out at his knee, and another at his groin when he catches the first in one hand. The second isn't any more effective.

 

“Dunno, would I?” Reno grits out. “Seeing a definite lack o gil around here, yo.” Even pinned, the street-rat managed to catch the wallet Kunsel tossed at his head and squirrel it away. The movement seems more instinctual than anything and Kunsel doesn't bother to hide the smirk that blooms.

 

“Six thousand gil enough for your lily-white virgin ass, Your Holiness?” he mocks. He doesn't give the kid a moment to answer. He's a SOLDIER; flipping an under-fed hooligan wouldn't have been difficult even before his mako regimen. Trouser seams come apart in his fingers and a leather belt snaps in two like a thread to the accompaniment of an irate 'OI!'. The boxers are given the same treatment, shredded and tossed aside. Almost idly, Kunsel drops one hand to Reno's back and pins his thrashing form to the bed.

 

“The fuck you doing you fuckin- _shiva's tits._ ” The lube is cold on Kunsel's finger. It must be a thousand times worse on Reno's ass.

 

“How the fuck are you so tight?” he wonders. Kunsel's not a big guy. Sure, mako bulked him up a lot but he's never going to be a fucking tank like that Hewley guy that's rocketing up through the ranks. But Reno's pucker sucks to Kunsel's index finger like the kid's never even shitted much less taken something up there. 

 

“Kegels,” Reno grunts and hisses as the next pass drags against his rim. “And some kickass genes, I dunno man.” His pants are tangled around his knees but he does his best to spread his legs as much as he can anyway, breathing deep to force himself to relax. Kunsel's hand on his back eases up from a compressing hold to rub firm circles at the base of his spine. 

 

“Mmm, no way a face like yours hasn't landed you on your stomach before,” Kunsel muses. The next thrust folds a second finger inside, and Reno's breath is a shaking, wet gasp. “What, you tell every guy you're their first?”

 

“Pay better,” Reno agrees tightly. He moans, sharp and high and his head drops to the flat, shapeless pillow. It's a subconscious response to a more submissive position, Kunsel notes absently, but the crushing, nearly painful pressure on his two fingers eases when Reno lays flat. Barely, but any progress is progress. Scissoring his fingers still barely budges the tight little pucker, though it dilates oh so prettily when he rubs his thumb along the rim. 

 

“You've been lucky,” Kunsel says. Reno's ass is gorgeous: tight and firm and round, his sphincter a dusky rose-pink molding to two fingers, and then three.

 

Reno screams, then chokes himself on his knuckles. 

 

“Any man with sense'd have you like this all the time,” Kunsel continues as if nothing happened. “You'd make good money without risking pissing off drunk SOLDIERs in alleyways. Get someone like the Don and they'd take care of ya.”

 

“Mebbe I got useful skills, ever thoughta that?”

 

“...Sure.” Kunsel says, voice thick with doubt.

 

Every press of his fingers is met with a grunt and the harsh sound of forced-leveled breathing and Ifrit, Reno's hole is fighting the intrusion. His whole body rocks when Kunsel presses down to his knuckles, but the gape reaches for him when he pulls back, as if begging.

 

Reno's not ready, that much is clear. It wasn't enough prep: he wasn't stretched nearly enough to sink even an embarrassingly-small cock down into, much less one that benefited from mako muscle enhancement. Add that to the fact that he was only casually slicked and nowhere near relaxed and if Kunsel had been wooing him there'd be another half hour of gentle touches and quiet encouragement.

 

Fuck that, Kunsel's on a schedule.

 

“Condom!” Reno snaps when Kunsel settles on top of him. He hauls himself up onto his elbows, twisting to glare over his shoulder. “Fuckin _condom_ , yo!” Kunsel slams a hand to the back of his neck and forces him back down, prostrate on his belly.

 

“Nah thanks,” Kunsel says. “Not like I can catch anything, whatever you got.”

 

Reno makes a sound of rage like boiling kettle. It cuts off when the blunt head of Kunsel's dick presses up against his hole.

 

“Six. Thousand. Gil.” Kunsel reminds him and slowly, reluctantly, Reno lowers his head.

 

He's tight. Kunsel knew, had  _known_ he would be but logical knowledge did nothing to prepare him. The tension in the line of the guy's spine directly translated to his ass. The force closing around Kunsel's dick was enough to be right on that exciting edge painful and he groaned in delight. 

 

““Yeahhh,” he breathes. Past the still-rigid (even now!) rim, every muscle pulse seems to echo through them both. No match for Kunsel's enhanced strength but fighting back with everything it had. Kunsel drops his head to that bony dip between Reno's shoulders and just breathes, pressing inexorably deeper inch by creeping inch. Below him Reno is silent, completely and entirely contained and Kunsel admires his self-control. He bottoms out without any protest from the red-head and for a moment he hangs there and imagines this was what the old mad preachers felt when they described the crushing all-encompassing presence of the Lifestream.

 

He transitions from frozen to a brutal pace without warning, pulling back so sharply the bed-legs left the floor and pressing back in so roughly the metal head-board slammed into the peeling, green plaster walls. The first brought a grunt, but every thrust after sees Reno no-doubt taking pride in his ability to not make a single sound. Bruises will later bloom under the indents Kunsel presses into his hips and a drop of blood wells up where he's bitten through his bottom lip. If Kunsel were a better man, he'd care.

 

He doesn't last long. He's got nothing to prove the vaunted SOLDIER stamina to, no lover to please so Kunsel takes his pleasure, fucking hard and fast to the symphony of sharp, sweaty slaps of skin where they connect or where Reno's balls slap against his thigh. 

 

Kunsel's orgasm is messy and sudden. The first traces of come seep out with his pace and later streaks of white are painted down the crack of Reno's ass, down his thighs, across his back, a few drops escaping to pool in the bend of his knee. Reno is ruined, and somehow nearly not a single drop gets on the purple and black of Kunsel's Second Class uniform. 

 

Kunsel doesn't offer a reach around. This was a business transaction, and his part is done.

 

By the time Reno is peeling himself up from the mess that spunk and sweat have ground into the bedsheets, Kunsel is buckling his belt and moseying towards the door.

 

“Yo,” Reno starts, but whatever he was going to say is lost when the door slams open and two Turks storm into the room.

 

Gun looks almost bored as she wrenches one hand up behind the red-head's back, forcing him to the floor and pressing her name-sake weapon up against the kid's skull. Knives steps forward with a pleasant smile and fishes a handkerchief from a pocket. “Congratulations Mr. Reno,” he murmurs, and dabs at the blood welling from the kid's bitten lip. “Your skills have come to the attention of Shinra management.”

 

The door closes on the rest of the blond's words and cuts off the last glimpse of Reno's face, twisted in a rictus of rage and betrayal. Kunsel drops his hands casually into his pockets and wanders out into the first blushes of dawn, down the street where Luxiere and Zexus will be waiting in the transport and will owe him so much chocolate. In a week or two he'll drop in to the Turk infirmary, just to check that the Reno kid didn't go belly-up from his little 'infusion' of 'bio-filtered mako' tonight. Because he's nice like that, and now he's invested in this kid's career.

 

Ifrit's burning balls, Kunsel  _fucking loves_ recruiting season.

 


End file.
